Atalanta defended their lead with controlled aggression in the minutes following the goal, their pressing intelligent rather than frantic, and Demien found himself dropping deeper to help de Roon shield the defense as Sampdoria pushed more bodies forward in search of a way back into the match.

When Atalanta won possession, Demien became the pivot point for every transition, his positioning between defense and midfield creating the passing lane that unlocked their attacks, and each time the ball came to him he'd scan the pitch with that enhanced vision from the Pirlo skill—seeing passing lanes others missed, controlling the tempo, dictating rhythm.

See everything. Control the tempo. Make them chase.

At seventy-four minutes, he received the ball deep and immediately spotted Koopmeiners making a run into space, so he swept a forty-yard diagonal pass across the field that dropped perfectly into the Dutch midfielder's path, and Koopmeiners' cross found Højlund but Audero saved well.

At seventy-five minutes, Atalanta won a corner after sustained pressure, and Malinovskyi prepared to take it from the right side as bodies jostled for position in Sampdoria's penalty area.

The Ukrainian's delivery curled toward the near post where Djimsiti attacked it with a powerful run, but Nuytinck read it perfectly and met the ball first, his header clearing it powerfully away from danger.

"Cleared by Nuytinck, Sampdoria breaking here!"

The ball flew toward the halfway line where Fernandez had stayed high during the corner, gambling on the counter, and he controlled the clearance on his chest before letting it drop to his feet, already spotting the space ahead as Atalanta's defenders scrambled to recover.

"FERNANDEZ! He's got space here! Sampdoria with numbers forward!"

The Uruguayan winger exploded forward at full pace, the ball seemingly tied to his boot, and Scalvini sprinted back desperately trying to cut off the angle but Fernandez had a five-yard head start and his acceleration was devastating.

Mæhle recovered from the left wing and tried to shepherd him wide, but Fernandez dropped his shoulder right then burst left with a sharp cut that left the Danish wing-back grabbing at air, and suddenly he was into the penalty area with Djimsiti the last defender.

"Fernandez cuts inside! Djimsiti's there but he's isolated!"

The Albanian center-back had to make a choice—dive in and risk getting beaten, or stand off and give him the shot—and he chose to hold his ground, forcing Fernandez wider toward the left side of the box.

But Fernandez didn't need much space, and at seventy-nine minutes he shaped his body as if preparing to shoot across goal with his right foot, drawing Musso's weight that direction, then his left foot came around the ball with the inside surface.

"FERNANDEZ!"

The finish was pure class, a finesse shot that curled away from Musso's desperate dive, bending beautifully through the air before nestling into the far corner with just enough pace to beat the goalkeeper's outstretched hand.

GOAL. ATALANTA 3-2 SAMPDORIA ⚽ Fernandez 79'

"WHAT A GOAL! Fernandez with a brilliant individual effort! From the counter-attack, beats three players, and finishes with absolute class! 3-2 and Sampdoria are right back in this!"

The away section erupted while the home crowd groaned, and Fernandez sprinted toward the corner flag with both arms spread wide, his celebration matching the quality of the goal as his teammates mobbed him and the Gewiss Stadium fell into nervous silence.

On the touchline Gasperini was screaming instructions at his players, his arms gesturing to stay compact, don't panic, keep your shape, and Demien could see the manager's face was red with urgency.

On the pitch, de Roon clapped his hands and shouted encouragement as Atalanta's players reorganized, and Demien jogged back toward the center circle while his heart hammered against his ribs because eleven minutes plus stoppage time suddenly felt like an eternity, and Fernandez had just reminded everyone why he was rated so highly.

The final ten minutes of regulation time became end-to-end chaos as both teams pushed forward with everything they had, and Demien found himself everywhere—defending deep one moment, pressing high the next, his legs growing heavier with each sprint but his mind staying sharp through David Drinkwater's experience.

His stamina was holding up better than it should have given he'd played nearly fifty minutes at Serie A intensity, but he could feel it now, that burn in his thighs and the way his touches needed more concentration to stay clean, his body demanding rest that the match wouldn't give him.

Just hold on. Just get through this.

The minutes blurred together—challenges won and lost, passes completed and intercepted, both teams trading blows without landing the knockout punch—and then, at the eighty-sixth minute, everything aligned perfectly.

Sampdoria won a corner deep in Atalanta's half, their last desperate push for an equalizer, and every outfield player except Audero pushed forward into the penalty area as Malinovskyi prepared to deliver from the right side.

The cross came in dangerous and curling, and de Roon met it at the near post with a powerful header that sent the ball flying thirty yards upfield toward Demien who'd stayed on the edge of the center circle, completely unmarked because Sampdoria had committed everything forward.

"Cleared by de Roon, Walter collects it, Atalanta breaking here..."

Demien chested it down and let it fall to his feet as he looked up, and what he saw made his tired legs forget their fatigue—acres of space ahead, Sampdoria's entire team behind him except for Rincón tracking back desperately and Nuytinck scrambling to recover position.

Go. This is it. Last chance to kill the game.

He pushed forward with the ball at his feet, taking three touches that carried him across the halfway line, and Rincón was backing off fifteen yards ahead, the veteran midfielder knowing he was isolated and couldn't afford to dive in.

Demien kept driving toward him, four touches now, five, and when he reached twenty-eight yards from goal Nuytinck finally caught up from the left side, the big center-back's sliding tackle perfectly timed to take both ball and man.

But Demien saw it coming, his enhanced reactions from all those pack openings giving him that split-second advantage, and he shifted his weight right as if preparing to cut that direction—selling it completely—before his right foot came around the ball and flicked it up with his toe.

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